Bring Me Down
by lizhowhp
Summary: Burt finds Kurt after a suicide attempt. One-Shot. AU. Might contain triggers.


**A/N:** Posted at my livejournal on February 16, 2011, and was written for a prompt on the _glee_angst_meme_ comm.

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><p>Burt comes home around three o'clock. The shop normally closes at seven, but he's going to that monster truck thing with Finn tonight. He figures the kids should be home by now, and he and the boys could use some time to bond without Carole. She's working her double shift at the hospital tonight, so he has the perfect opportunity for some much needed guy time.<p>

The first thing he notices is the music. It's Broadway, one of the songs from that Wizard of Oz musical he's had to sit through four times, but it's weird that it's coming from upstairs, not from Kurt's room in the basement.

"Hey, kiddo? You in the bathroom? Well, how 'bout turning that down?" he yells, a little annoyed, a little amused.

There's no reply, no response except a group of Munchkins or something singing that there's good news. "Kurt? Come on, now."

When the volume stays the same, Burt feels uneasy. His boy's a respectful one, and Kurt knows how to pick his battles. He'd never risk a fight over something so stupid as volume level when he can throw a tantrum over not getting a McQueen scarf.

"Kurt?" he repeats, panic now lacing his tone. He jogs up the stairs, going faster than he probably has in a good twenty years. "Kurt?"

The bathroom door is locked. He pounds on it, yelling his boy's name, and then he just starts hurling his body at it. All the while, the damn Munchkins keep singing, taunting him.

Finally, the door gives in, splintering a little around the knob, and Burt immediately sees Kurt, laying in the bathtub. The water's red. Oh, God, he thinks. Kurt must've hit his head somehow, must've fallen asleep from a concussion, but he didn't slip under the water, thank God.

He falls on his knees next to the tub and reaches for his son. "Buddy," he says softly, shaking Kurt's shoulder. "Hey, buddy, come on."

God, Kurt is cold. He's breathing, though, which is good. But the water is cold. That's not good, that means that his little boy has been here for far, far too long, and why the hell is his cell phone still in his back pocket? He needs to call 911.

As he punches in the three numbers and holds the little phone to his ear, a horrible thought runs through his head: It doesn't really look like Kurt had hit his head. Kurt is laying sort of gracefully in the tub, his head perched carefully on the slanted rim, his hair dry.

"911, what is your emergency?"

Burt reaches into the tub, letting out a dry sob as he submerges his forearm in the red tinted water, and pulls Kurt's left arm up. There's a gash across his wrist. It's an angry red, so much more red than the stain the water has left on both his and Kurt's arms, and the cut looks so cleanly split that it's perverse.

"My son tried to kill himself," he tells the operator. Tears course down his cheeks and he lets out a large sob. "My boy slit his wrists."

His mouth runs without his knowledge. He tells the operator that he just found Kurt, that the water is cold, that he lives at 92 Oak St. and he needs an ambulance now. He holds on to Kurt's forearm, stares at the cut, thinks about the one that's probably on his other wrist, and cries harder.

The operator assures Burt that an ambulance is coming. He lets the cell drop from his fingers and moves his torso closer to Kurt, leaning over the bathtub's rim.

"Oh, buddy," he murmurs. "Oh, kiddo. What'd you do?"

He gently places Kurt's arm down, resting it against his pale chest. He strokes his son's perfectly coiffed hair with his dry hand and continues to cry.

The bullying's bad. He knows that, no matter how much Kurt tries to downplay it, but Burt had thought it had gotten so much better once Kurt made those friends. He'd been so damn sure that the kid could muddle through it with his group of glee misfits. But, God, why hadn't Kurt told him that something was wrong? That his life was this bad?

He moves his hand down to Kurt's slack face, stroking his fingers against Kurt's cheek. Despite himself, he lets out a desperate, mimicry of a laugh, thinking how finicky his boy is about daily skin cleansing and yet still has that the splattering of acne on his cheekbone.

Tears fall off his own cheeks and onto Kurt's. He wipes them away with his thumb and wishes he'd done this when they'd actually been his son's tears.

Finally, after what seems like forever, he hears commotion downstairs. He yells for the EMTs. They rush into the bathroom, and as he backs away, giving them the access they need, he thinks about how young Kurt looks.

The EMTs, two guys around his age but in better shape, check Kurt over quickly and then lift him out of the water. Burt cries harder at seeing his son's naked body being manhandled, at the confirmation that both wrists had been slashed at.

Kurt's placed on a stretcher, and the two guys tell Burt to follow them down to the ambulance. As he leaves the bathroom, Burt spares a last glance at the tub, red tinged water filling it halfway, and then the little iPod thing still blasting from over by the sink. He recognizes that the green girl is singing about school and being unlimited and wonders how the hell the album is still practically at its start, because it's sure as hell felt like a decade since he came home.

Outside, neighbors from houses all around and beyond have gathered on the sidewalk. He ignores them, even well intentioned Mrs. Welles who calls out his name in concern. He just takes one step, then another, and focuses on that.

He climbs into the ambulance after they've got Kurt in there and realizes that he's in hell. He has to be, because there's no good in this situation, none at all. He feels like his chest has been carved out and useless tears keep falling quietly down his cheeks.

When one of the EMTs says, "He's not breathing," to the other one, though, Burt knows that he's spoken too soon, thinking that the situation has already hit rock bottom. The two guys make frantic movements around Kurt, around his boy, who lays in the middle of the back of an ambulance, so startlingly still and uncharacteristically quiet, thick gauze covering both of his wrists.

A minute passes. The EMTs work to make his boy breathe, to make his heart beat, but it's obviously not working. It feels like the longest minute Burt's ever sat through, but another passes. And then another. And then another.

God, Burt thinks. Kurt's dead.

His tears stop. The aching in his chest seizes, and for a moment it feels as if he's the one who's dead.

And he's better off dead, isn't he, if his baby boy isn't in the world with him? He knows the answer.

Another minute passes. The pain returns, and it's completely consuming. He feels it crush everything in him, feels it pulverize his bones and make every speck of his being burn. He'd been pressed flush against the side of the ambulance, trying to give the two guys the room they needed to work, but now that there's no point, he reaches over and takes Kurt's hand. His hand, so little in Burt's bigger one, is so, so cold, as if he's been dead forever.

He starts to sob again. The force of it causes him to double over, and one of the EMTs pats him on the back and urges him to stand up straight. "We're at the hospital," he says, "and we need to get Kurt in there to see if they can do something."

Burt moves out of the way and, still crying, watches as Kurt is taken out of the ambulance. Someone grabs his arm, murmurs comforting but stern words, and they follow the gurney into the hospital.

Nothing matters, Burt thinks. Kurt's dead.

Except he isn't, he learns soon enough. The doctors have got him back, and they're optimistic. But as he sits in a waiting room chair, dried tears and snot making his skin tight, that numb but all consuming feeling thrumming throughout his body, Burt wonders if he'll ever live again, because he's pretty sure something inside of him died when, clinically, Kurt had.

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><p>Carole places a hand on his cheek and smiles at him. She's so sad; Burt can see it in her eyes. It would usually hurt him to see someone, let alone a woman, in so much pain, but he hasn't gotten any feeling back yet. He's just breathing, watching, waiting, and Carole understands that.<p>

"I'm gonna go talk to Finn and his and Kurt's friends."

"'Kay," he murmurs. She leaves the room, and he tightens his hold on Kurt's hand. It's warm this time and that's what he's focused on.

"Oh, buddy," he sighs for what seems like the hundredth time today. Burt thinks about what he should do. Should he take a flamethrower to that damn school, people inside and all? But he knows that won't solve Kurt's problems or help him heal. No, he needs to just focus on Kurt, on his little boy who looks likes he's being swallowed by the white sheets in the tiny hospital bed.

Kurt exhales an agitated breath, a familiar little sigh that signals he's waking up. Burt sits up straighter, holds Kurt's hand tighter. "Kiddo?"

This time, thank God, Kurt responds: "Dad?"

It's a small sound, confused and groggy. Kurt blinks and looks around the room. When he finally realizes where he is and why, Burt brings his hand to his mouth and presses a little kiss against his knuckles.

"It's gonna be alright, Kurt," he says. His voice is thick, but he believes the words.

**The End**


End file.
